Pieta
by kangeiko
Summary: Five year old Susan walks in on a gruesome scene. Darkfic.


**pietà  
**

**DISCLAIMER:** JMS owns Susan and Sophie Ivanova, not I.  
**SUMMARY:** Five year old Susan finds a gruesome scene.  
**PAIRING:** None.  
**RATING:** R. This is a darkfic – it upset me while writing it, and it upset my betas. Fair warning is now being given.  
**ARCHIVE:** Ask first.  
** NOTES:** 1. I wasn't sure how old Susan was when Sophie Ivanova died – I seem to recall she was either five or ten. I took five, 'cause I could work with that better. Ten I feel is a stretch in this particular story. 2. I forget how Sophie took her life exactly (God, not real good with the old memory thing, am I?), if it was ever mentioned, so I'm settling for a PPG blast. 3. pietà, noun, a representation of the Virgin Mary mourning over the dead body of Christ. [Italian _pietà_ pity, from Latin _pietat-_, _pietas_ – **The New Penguin English Dictionary**.

**DEDICATION:** To Erica and Anna, my lovely, lovely betas for their invaluable advice and support. Thanks, ladies.

**pietà**

Dark red pearls lace through her hair, colour bleeding from her mouth on to the freshly-cleaned carpet.

"Mama?"

Dark eyes blink at the pietà– the mother clutching a doll as if it were a child, the stain seeping into the woman's hair and the carpet. The porcelain face of the doll is bleached, the dark red spatters incongruous against the forehead and cheeks. The smell of cooking drifts in from the kitchen; incense burns in the corner of the room, lavender smoke winds upwards.

The child regards the incense solemnly for a moment before turning her attention back to the woman lying on the floor.

"Mama?"

The red does not look like blood. It is too dark for blood, the child thinks, relieved. She knows what colour blood is from the countless scrapes that mama has kissed better. The colour is too dark. It's a head scarf, or perhaps hair colouring the mother has clumsily dropped. Perhaps she is taking a nap. Perhaps she is just tired.

She does not notice the cavity in the side of the head, the lifeless hands. Mama is simply sleeping. Mama is just pale. Mama has not been taking her vitamins, and the pills the Corps gave to mama made her sick.

Yes, that's it. Mama is sick. Mama is sleeping because she is sick. Mama has wound a red cloth around her hair and is holding a doll. The doll is dirty.

"Mama?"

The child prises the doll away from the slack fingers and clumsily cleans it with the edge of her skirt, leaving dark red blotches on the muslin. She hugs the doll fiercely, all the while watching the woman lying on the carpet. It occurs to her that there is an inordinately large amount of the head scarf lying around. She decides not to touch it, instead retreating to the edge of the bed.

The woman – her mother – continues to lie on the carpet, eyes staring emptily at the child.

"Mama?"

She hesitates.

"Mama?"

Mama relies on her to help her clean the house. She is a good girl. She needs to clean the house and to help mama now that mama is evidently sick and sleeping.

Retreating back through the open door, the child runs to the kitchen, pulls out a cleaning rag and fills a small container with soapy water.

She is a good girl. She is going to clean the house. And when mama wakes, she'll be pleased. Returning to mama's bedroom, she sits the container of soapy water down on the carpet next to mama and dips the rag in.

"Mama? Mama, wake up, I'm going to clean."

Maybe she is really tired.

The water spills. The rag disappears in the soap bubbles. The doll is soaked through, the red blotches spreading through the water.

The head scarf isn't a head scarf.

The child leans in experimentally, the corners of her mouth turning downwards. Mama always gave the sweetest kisses.

The lips are cold now. Cold and stained and sticky, and she isn't sure if she wants another kiss.

Mama is cold, and the child isn't sure how to warm her up. Maybe a blanket would be good. Maybe some tea.

The child fetches the tea and sets it down on the bedside table. She finds a spare blanket in the wardrobe and carefully doesn't notice the small seeping cavity in the side of mama's head. It's just a trick of the light, she thinks, relieved. Mama's just sleeping.

She drapes the blanket over the woman on the floor and sits down to face her.

The child has done all she knows to do now. All she can do. It's now mama's turn to wake up.

Mama?

Even this requires some effort from mama. The child is not strong enough to maintain contact on her own. The woman is silent.

Mama? Mama, wake up. Dark eyes blink, and again. "I'm scared," she whispers, as if it's a crime to admit it.

Still silence from the mother. There is an empty space in her arms where the doll used to be clutched. The child gives up the pretence of bravery and crawls in next to her mother under the blanket. She carefully positions the heavy arms around her in a lacklustre embrace, trying without much success to elicit some movement from the woman she is cuddled against.

Eventually the child quietens. She turns and buries her face against her mother's shoulder, ignoring the cold red spatters the soapy water has disturbed. Finally, the child spits on the edge of her sleeve and carefully cleans her mother's face as best as she can.

The child closes her eyes and emits a tiny whimper, willing the arms to tighten around her in comfort.

She drifts off to sleep.

In the two hours it will take for the father to return home and find the horrifying tableau, the mother will continue to watch over the tiny form in her arms with sightless open eyes.

In her sleep, the child tosses and turns. Again and again she whispers her question, "Mama?"

She is not answered.

fin


End file.
